The Spring Bride (7 page)

He crossed the road, pausing to let a wagon rumble by. He was coming to a more fashionable part of town, where elegant little shops displayed the kind of wares most people couldn't dream of owning. Quite why he'd wandered in this direction he wasn't sure; perhaps it was merely a desire to reacquaint himself with an area he remembered from his youth.

Not that anyone who'd known him then would look twice at him at the moment. There were still enough shabbily dressed people, even in this area, for him not to stand out.

With a faint jolt of surprise, he realized he was enjoying himself. He'd missed London, missed the sound of English, in all its variations, all around him; the call of hawkers, the shouts of street urchins, the genteel murmur of a pair of well-dressed ladies as they passed him in the street, the distant bellow of a frustrated carter, shouting at people to get out of the road—all in different accents, but all English.

He was home. It was a strange feeling.

Ahead, a small knot of fashionably dressed people emerged from one of the shops, just as an elegant town carriage pulled up. Some ragged children loitered nearby but the fashionable people swept past them.

It was the girl that caught Zach's eye—a slender creature dressed in blue and gold, like something out of a fairy tale. She was the last out of the shop, and after she emerged, she waited a few steps behind her companions searching for something in her reticule.

Zach's attention was drawn to the comedy of errors playing
itself out ahead of her; a large footman in livery, a maid, and a companion by the look of her, all laden with parcels, fussing around a frail-looking, aristocratic old lady who was struggling to climb into the landau, crossly batting away any helping hands, and knocking several parcels to the ground.

He glanced back at the golden girl. The street urchins had gone, but now her attention was not on the fuss around the old lady, but on something else happening down a narrow side alley. Even as he watched, she stiffened and ran into the alley. Had the children stolen something? Was she in pursuit of them? Foolish if she was.

Her companions didn't seem to notice; the old lady continued to struggle to mount the carriage without assistance, the footman, juggling parcels, began to load them carefully into the boot of the carriage, the other two females fussed around the old lady while the coachman fended off abuse from the traffic he was holding up.

Curious as to what would cause such a gently nurtured flower of the aristocracy to venture alone into a dirty London side street, Zach closed the distance in a few long strides and looked down the alley.

And with a muttered curse started running.

A group of youths were gathered in a circle, kicking at something—Zach couldn't see what, but clearly the girl had. She burst into the knot of ruffians at full pelt, giving the biggest one a hard shove that caught him off balance and made him stagger.

The tallest youth quickly recovered from his surprise, grabbed the girl and shoved her hard against the wall of the alley. Zach put on speed, but before he could reach them, the girl's knee came up in a most unladylike move. She connected too. The leader bent double, swearing horribly. His friends closed in.

She faced them white-faced and tense, holding her reticule up like a weapon. She opened her mouth—to scream, he supposed—but then she saw Zach coming. She instantly swiped at one of the thug's heads with her reticule. The youth ducked, and she missed his head, but as a distraction it was sufficient.

Zach grabbed the two nearest thugs by their collars and slammed them hard against the wall of the alley. They subsided there, groaning. The remaining three youths swung round to face him warily. They eyed his rough clothing. “She's ours, gypsy. Bugger off.”

Zach's reply was to place himself between the girl and the youths.

“You ain't from 'round 'ere,” one of them said, drawing a knife. “You dunno who you're dealing wiv.”

In a swift movement, Zach kicked the knife from the youth's hand. It clattered against the cobbles. “Consider ourselves introduced.”

“Best not interfere if you plan on livin' long,” his friend said, sounding suddenly less assured.

Zach gave the youth a cold smile. “Try me.”

“Behind you,” the girl warned him. Zach jabbed an elbow in the throat of a lad who'd recovered from being flung at the wall and was creeping up on him from behind. He reeled back, choking and coughing.

“Next one who makes a move toward myself or the young lady, I'll break his neck,” Zach said calmly.

The three young men exchanged glances and edged away. One of them held up his hands. “We don't want no trouble, mister.”

“Then get out of here—and take that rubbish with you.” Zach jerked his head at the youth stirring groggily on the filthy cobblestones and the one still clutching his throat.

Hastily the three gathered up their mates and hurried away down the alley.

Zach waited until they'd gone, then turned to the young woman. “Are you all r—” The words dried on his tongue. The sounds of the city faded away. He stood, neither knowing nor caring where he was, drowning in a pair of wide blue eyes, blue as the sky on a Greek summer's day . . .

She stared back, not moving or saying a word.

The moment stretched. Then her eyelashes fluttered. Breaking his gaze, she glanced away, and took in a long, shivery-sounding breath.

The city sounds and smells rushed back. Zach blinked. What the devil was he doing? He
never
lost concentration. He glanced back down the alley, but the youths were well and truly gone. His gaze returned to the young woman. She was staring at him again, and again he was caught by that blue, blue gaze.

Mastering himself, he dragged in a ragged breath and said, “Are you all right?” His voice sounded hoarse.

She was trembling—and no wonder—but even as his hands
went out to steady her, she seemed to gather herself and edged away from him.

Damn, he'd forgotten how he was dressed. “Miss?” he said, remembering his role at last.

In danger of drowning again in that blue gaze and losing his ability to think, he lowered his eyes, and found himself focusing on her mouth instead.

Bad idea. Satiny, full, eminently kissable mouth. Wild roses and strawberries.

“Y-yes.” It was hesitant, and she bit uncertainly on the lower lip with small, even teeth. He felt his body stir.

He dragged his eyes off her mouth, and dropped his gaze.

A slow blush spread upward from the neck of her dress, and Zach suddenly realized where he was looking. Damn.

He hauled his gaze off her chest, noted in passing that the blush had turned her cheeks to wild roses blooming. It made him want to stare at her lips again, so in sheer self-defense he focused on her hat, a ridiculous little blue and gold confection perched rakishly on top of a head of soft, guinea-gold curls.

“Are you sure?” he said, his voice annoyingly husky.

Under cover of straightening her hat, she took another few deep, shaky breaths before answering in a voice that trembled only a little, “Sorry. Yes, I'm perfectly all right, thank you. And very grateful for your assistance.” And then she smiled up at him, a dazzling sunburst of a smile that made him catch his breath.

He should have been relieved at her quick recovery, but something about that smile, so bright and . . . and composed—and for all its brilliance, it was false, because she was still shaking. It fanned a small spark of anger within him. She had nothing to smile about, dammit.

She must have seen something in his expression, for she took a step backward and stumbled. He caught her by the arms, and could feel her pulse fast and fluttering. She wasn't all right. Not at all. She went to pull away. It fanned his temper further.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?”

The smile slipped. She opened her mouth to respond, but he continued, “Did you think you could just barrel into a bunch of street toughs and interfere with whatever it was they were up to? Did you imagine that they would listen—”

I did not then know what it was to love.

—JANE AUSTEN,
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

H
is words washed over her. Jane tried to gather her scattered wits. She'd never seen such eyes, gray but with the faintest hint of green, like a sage leaf buried in pewter or polished steel. And if she wasn't looking up at him, seeing for herself the tanned, darkly stubbled skin, the overlong tangle of thick, dark hair, the bold blade of a nose and the faded, gaudily embroidered sheepskin coat, she would have thought he was . . . someone else. A different kind of man.

But he was a gypsy and a stranger, and although she was grateful for his help—very grateful—she stiffened as his words finally filtered through to her.

“Why on earth would you think they'd listen to you? Because you're a rich young lady and they're just street scum?”

He had no right to speak to her in this fashion. Speak? He was yelling at her. She frowned. The man—the handsome, brave and noble gypsy—the man who'd saved her from a nasty encounter with those horrid boys—like a hero in a novel—and then stolen her breath and her composure for goodness knows how long—was
yelling
at her.

Oh, not loudly, for his voice was low and vehement. But those
steely gray eyes were blazing and his hands gripped her forearms tightly, as if he'd like to shake her.

The fact that what he was saying was embarrassingly true—oh, not that she thought those boys would show any respect to a lady—far from it, she simply hadn't thought before she'd acted—only made things worse.

He glanced at the reticule dangling from her wrist. “And how could you imagine that frivolous bit of fluff would be any kind of a weapon?”

She finally found her voice. “I usually carry a stack of pennies in my coin purse but I gave—I don't have them today.” She tried to pull free of his grip, but he wasn't finished.

The deep, low-voiced tirade continued, “You cannot possibly be so naive. Even the most sheltered young lady ought to kn—”

“The weight of the pennies acts like a cosh.”

“A cosh?” The steely eyes narrowed. “So you're not that sheltered, are you? That move you put on that thug . . .”

Jane felt her cheeks warm again. Of all the things he had to notice . . . She lifted her chin. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“When you kneed him in the—”

“I did no such thing,” she interrupted hastily. No gentleman would refer to such a thing, but of course, a gypsy would have no such delicate scruples. She turned aside, knowing she was blushing. Again. Though for a different reason. “You're mistaken.”

“I'm not.” His grip relaxed and the anger faded from his face. He sounded almost amused, which annoyed her.

“Yes, you are. I didn't—a lady would never—” She caught herself up and said haughtily, “I cannot even imagine what you are suggesting.” She hadn't even thought about it, had just reacted in a move she'd learned a lifetime ago, in another life.

His lips twitched and she could see he was prepared to argue the point, but before he could say anything, Jane heard a whimper, and seized on it gratefully. She turned. “Did you hear that? He's still here, poor little fellow.”

“Who is?”

“The dog. Why do you think I came down here?” She scanned the shadowed corners of the alley as she spoke. “Those beasts were torturing him. I could hear him yelping in pain.”

“A dog? You risked your life for
a dog
?” He sounded incredulous.

“They were
torturing
it.” Jane searched through the rubbish in the alley, trying not to notice the dirt and the smells.

“And that justifies risking your life, does it?”

“I didn't think,” she admitted. “I just heard a dog yelping in pain and those horrid beasts laughing so evilly, and . . . I . . . I just had to stop them.” She shuddered, recalling the way the leader of the toughs had thrust her hard against the wall. And how this tall, unshaven stranger had plucked the youth off her and flung him yards across the alley, with such easy, practiced violence.

“All on your own?”

She swallowed. “All right, it was foolish of me, I admit. But I didn't think they'd turn so nasty. Besides, I thought William was behind me. He usually is.”

“Who is—”

“Oh, there he is.” She started toward a pile of rubbish in a corner from which a quivering black nose poked.

“Be careful,” the gypsy ordered, following her. “If the animal's hurt, he'll bite.”

People said gypsies were dangerous, that they would steal you away. This one was protective. And bossy. And annoying.

Though those eyes of his . . . they could steal a girl's soul.

If she wasn't careful.

“He won't bite me.” She'd never had an animal bite her yet, except for that rat, when she was little. “You won't hurt me, will you, sweetheart?” she crooned softly as she pulled away the dirty sacking that the dog had sought refuge in, poor frightened creature. It growled, but it was a halfhearted effort. A warning as much as anything. “Oh, just look at the state of you, poor baby.”

Half starved, with his ribs sticking out, and bleeding from a dozen injuries, the dog crouched on the damp cobbles, shivering, eyeing her warily. But not in a fierce or dangerous way, she knew. She was much more confident with animals than men.

Behind her, the tall man looked at the dog and made a small exclamation under his breath. “I should have given each of those young thugs a good thrashing.”

Jane agreed, but all her attention was on the dog. She tugged off her gloves and tucked them in her reticule. She hadn't touched the dog yet, was just letting him get used to her scent. And to the
sound of her voice. “There, there, sweetheart, everything will be all right now,” she murmured. “I'm here now. Nobody shall harm you again. Now, don't be frightened, I just need to see how badly those horrid beasts have . . .” Judging the moment right, she reached out to touch the dog.

Again, the gypsy grabbed her, this time by the wrist.

Jane jumped. The dog flinched and growled again.

She froze a moment, staring down at the big hand holding her wrist so firmly. Warm, brown, masculine fingers wrapped around her bare skin. She would have imagined a gypsy's hands would feel rough but his didn't. She tried to remember how those hands had smashed into those young thugs. His grip was strong, but he wasn't hurting her.

With dignity, she turned her head to glare at him. An unhand-me-sir sort of glare. A society-lady-to-gypsy sort of glare.

It ought to have put him in his place.

It didn't.

Their gazes locked for an endless moment. Gray-green eyes bored unapologetically into hers, warm, hard fingers gripped her firmly. The noise of the city, the dismal reek of the alleyway, even the dog faded again from her awareness. Such bright, hard, unsettling eyes. Soul-stealing eyes. She swallowed and fought to maintain her composure.

He was a stranger, a gypsy—and an angry one, judging by the glitter in his eyes—and this was the second or third time he'd touched her, yet she felt no sense of threat. Well, not physically.

It was a different kind of danger.

He was so close she could feel the warmth of his big body, could see each dark bristle in his skin, the rough darkness of his jaw, the mobile fascination of his mouth.

Fascination?
What was she thinking?

A chance-met gypsy in a small side alley. Rough. Tough. Intimidating. He'd handled those boys with a casual violence that ought to have horrified her.

Instead, it had thrilled her.

She ought to be repelled by him.

She wasn't. Far from it. Something about him drew her in some strange way. The thought sparked a warning deep within her.

“What do you think you're doing?” She wrenched her gaze off his face and glanced pointedly at his hand. A surprisingly
clean hand, tanned, but with clean, well-trimmed fingernails. He didn't smell dirty either. There was a scent of woodsmoke and damp wool and old leaves and underneath it all a scent of . . . she didn't know what, but it was dark and masculine, and somehow . . . enticing.

He moved, and another sliver of stark awareness rippled through her.

“Don't touch him, he's frightened and hurt; he could be savage.” His voice was soft, but his hard, silvery gaze stripped her of her defenses.

“He's not savage and he won't bite me.” She carefully detached her arm from his grasp. “Thank you, but I know what I'm doing.” She bent over the dog, but all the time she could feel the man's eyes on her, his gaze sliding over her.

She was used to men staring at her. All her life it had happened, even when she was a child. Usually she hated it, hated the way they stared, their eyes running over her, hot and heavy, weighted with expectations that made her feel . . . anxious. Uncomfortable. And sometimes frightened.

But this . . . She didn't know quite what she felt.

The intensity of that hard, silver-edged gaze made her . . . not uncomfortable, exactly, so much as aware. Alive. Breathless. On edge.

Nonsense. It was merely a reaction from the scuffle with those horrid boys, she told herself. She was no longer used to witnessing violence. Only occasionally, in her dreams.

Beside her he shifted, and again, she absorbed that faint exotic, manly, outdoorsy smell. The forbidden. Dark, exciting. Dangerous. She shivered.

The sooner she got herself away from him, the better.

Footsteps sounded behind them, and he released her and whirled, fists at the ready.

“Oh, there you are, William,” Jane said quickly, not certain whether she felt relieved or disappointed. “I knew you'd get here eventually. I told this gentleman you were close by.” There she went again, calling the gypsy a gentleman.

The expression on William's face showed how ludicrous he thought the appellation too. “This feller bothering you, Miss Jane?”

“Not at all. In fact, he saved me from the unwanted attentions
of some extremely nasty young men.” She turned back to the dog.

William peered over her shoulder and grunted. “A dawg. I might o' known it.”

“The poor little fellow has been cruelly injured.” She reached for the dog again.

“Don't! If it's hurt, it'll—”

“Miss Jane knows what she's doing,” William told the gypsy, adding in a pointed fashion to Jane, “Though what she's doing down a dirty alley with a dirty gypsy and a dirty stray dawg, when she
ought
to be sittin' in the carriage along with the other ladies, is something I'd like to know the reason for.”

“Hush.” She let the dog sniff her fingers, then stroked him softly. When he relaxed a little, she ran her hands gently over the animal's body. He quivered under her touch, stiffened a few times and whimpered once, but otherwise suffered her attentions with a patient air. And when she'd finished her examination, he tried to lick her hand.

She turned her head and said to the gypsy. “See, I told you, he's not savage. He's got some nasty cuts and abrasions—even some burns, the beasts—but I don't think anything is broken. Maybe a cracked rib or two—I can't tell yet—but he's going to be all right, I'm sure of it.”

She rose to her feet. The gypsy and William reached out a hand to assist her at the same time. The gypsy won. It was the fourth time he'd touched her. His grip was sure and strong on the bare skin of her hand. Her pulse leapt at the contact.

William bristled, but before he could take offense at the familiarity, the man had released her.

“Want me to get rid of this fellow, Miss Jane?” William asked.

“Not at all.” To cover her flustered reaction to the gypsy's touch, Jane brushed off her skirt, frowning as she noticed a muddy stain. “As I said before, he's been very helpful.”

William snorted, unimpressed.

“Yes, William,” the gypsy said, “I was
very
helpful. Just as well, seeing you were too busy with
parcels
to notice that your mistress was in trouble.”

William stiffened. His glare intensified.

With a smile that was pure, studied insolence, the gypsy adjusted his nonexistent cuffs.

Honestly, men—they might as well have been two dogs, circling stiff-legged around each other, hackles up, looking for a fight. Jane decided to defuse the moment. “Give the man a shilling for his trouble, please, William.”

The gypsy's smug smile vanished. “A
shilling
?” Black brows snapped together and he stared at Jane first in surprise and then . . . was that amusement? The gray eyes gleamed, the hint of green more in evidence now.

Wasn't a shilling enough? Or perhaps she'd offered him too much? She didn't have much experience in tipping. It was a male concern. She glanced at William, but he didn't seem surprised, just unhappy at having to pay the man anything, even though he knew she'd repay him when they got home. He frowned at her with a mulish expression, conveying a silent message that she understood perfectly well.